I hastily mounted the old maroon English racer. The pedals never rushed up to met my sneakers as I had imagined. Unable to reach the hard brownish leather saddle. I straddled the cool steel top rail. Grabbing the handlebars and demanding command. Steady on the right, steady on the left. The narrow faintly lit sidewalk stared with danger. My heart pounding as I realized a gentle push had ensued. I was on my way, still upright.
Trash cans to my right, parked cars to my left.
Wheels start to wobble, pace began to quicken. My confidence danced back and forth.
The end of the block racing towards me.
Panic was closing in on my heels.
Suddenly as always on time. A voice of certainty echoed from brownstone to brownstone.
The voice finally caught me and whispered
"Pedal back'wards to slowdown and stop" "Butch"
Yes! it worked, I was in command again.
"Thanks! Mr Wilson"
